June 8-12 – Madrid – Back down to earth, and (temporary) homelessness.

“Get out of the way! Are you deaf!!”

A English man, red around the shoulders and slightly glazed from too much sun, beer, or both, shouted out at the top of his voice, over a packed, wilting, dripping clientele watching the match in the James Joyce pub.

I shuddered. The tall Spanish man, rotating, looking for some kind of space to park himself did not understand. Or in the commotion the meaning perhaps got lost. For there was noise – jaleo – everywhere: bar staff, flustered flitting around attempting to do table service to the few groups of trollied people that did not deserve it; Stag parties attempting to either fall off the chairs, or start chants about the other members of the group; Germans behind me having intellectual discussions with confused americans about the pros and cons of the gegenpress.

And, after the crushing disappointment of the equalising goal, once again reducing Roy Hodgson to apologising, it dawned on me. I was bloody back in England.

This morning, I am sitting in a beautiful secret plaza, by an outpost of the university, amongst students, and locals with dogs. Sparrows jump between tables, and a canopy of wisteria hangs down providing shade to a couple of guys playing guitars.

A woman hands out leaflets for Podemos ('We can') the new leftwing party that has smashed though the heart of mainstream politics here. You could describe them as the Jeremy Corbyn of Spain – but with a young, fresh, (though still beardy) face. They propose regulating banks' profits, providing more support to people, and improving healthcare. Not everyone agrees though, and most of Spain remains fairly conservative, like the UK. The main party is PP ('Popular Party') and they seem to be gaining points as we approach the election. Another election, because as with so many new fringe parties involved, the parliament has been at a state of impasse. Despite the rise of Podemos, apart from their passionate super-fans, the political mood here is not one of excitement. People are jaded by the stalemate in government. The first thing that comes to mind, before policy, is still the perception of corruption. 'Whoever you vote for, the government gets in' seems to be the prevailing attitude here.

Many young people believe that abroad is the best option. Especially the ambitious ones. And, a good level of English feels like a passport. Many eye opportunities in Britain, Holland or Germany, and are prepared to do whatever it takes to get there. But always, there is a sad lament. A hollowing in the heart, when pressed on the issues here. El paro, the unemployment, still casts a shadow over this country. And many people I meet at language exchanges are unemployed – looking for skills to give them the opportunity to leave, or increasingly, to stand out in a chaotic jobs market. A surprising thing, but close to home as well. It is easy to take for granted our current situation in the UK, with job opportunities, and a breezy confidence. But we have short memories. The scars we had from our own recession have healed, but we shouldn't forget why they emerged in the first place.

Despite this, at least to me, there is a lot to be positive about Spain's future. I have also heard the shoots of opportunity rising, in a small way: a French company locating to Madrid for access to Latin America, new bars and cafes full of locals morning and night, and the metro buzzing (and boiling) at rush hour. Whether Podemos can form a coalition, or PP returns to power, Spain will recover. Time is a healer, and Spain is a sleeping giant. Like, er, Aston Villa.

And it was peoples lust for English skills that lead to my first job.

It was last night, terribly organised, but hugely enjoyable. I returned to the bar I met David a week before, after he set me some messages offering the class. It took a while to realise, that he was not going to be there, and thanks to some vague directions from the barman, I had to find and introduce myself to my students. My first time as a profesor and now I was also my own boss. But it went well, one student much more confident than the other, and I tried to push and pull the conversation through some interesting topics. My first questions though fell flat. Neither of my students were interested in the biggest event of these few weeks – the European Championship (la Eurocupa). A surprising theme actually – far less Spaniards are aficionados de futbal than I thought.

Which may not be a bad thing. Especially when alcohol is involved.

The James Joyce bar filtered out after the final whistle. Grumpy expats returned to their Spanish wives, stag parties stumbled to vomit somewhere close to Plaza Mayor, and the bar staff exhaled.

I moved on, to pass through the centre, Puerta del Sol. 

Aside from the odd british stag party, a night out in Madrid is a especially friendly, relaxed place to walk. The hubbub and chatter, old and young, party animals and sophisticated diners all live and enjoy the night, side by side. It is a stark contrast with UK cities, where a foray into a saturday night is to mix with police, and arseholes, tearing up the night, throwing their ego around like it is a half empty bottle of WKD. Here there is no aggro whatsoever.

Well almost no aggro. As I found out last night. When I was homeless (well, kind of).

I was forced to change my plans quickly, yesterday, as my host in Burgos 'forgot' that I was coming. Lo siento, he olvidado! It is surprising how many people don't treat Airbnb like a business, which is exactly what it is. This left me in a fix. In a frantic messaging and booking session, I managed to secure a place for a few more days in Madrid, and then a later place in Burgos. And secure is certainly the word. Coming back after my class, and pushing on 12pm on a Sunday night is not the time for your key to not open your door. That morning my host, struggling herself to open the door for at least ten minutes, explained to me – you just need to pull it out a touch and then giggle it. Easy. Or not.

That evening I tried the lock for almost 40 minutes like I was robbing the place. Key in, left, right. A little short of the slot, fully in. Quickly. Slowly. Everything. People looked at me strangely. My host, Valeria, who does not live in the flat, was at work – till 3 in the morning – and reluctant to come after that. My only option was to wait for someone to come out.

The bar opposite was open, although almost empty, and eventually I saw why. Three guys, one super drunk, were propping up the bar. I held my beer close and stood still, eyes transfixed on the door to the apartment block, looking awkward. Feeling awkward. Someone came back, but I missed them, as my attention was taken momentarily. The drunk guy dropped the contents of his bag on the floor, and in a pissed jiggle to try and retrive his things, got told to leave by the barman. I held my beer. He did eventually leave, swearing, and throwing the door open with his shoulder.

And, it was here I spotted my opportunity. Just then, a couple exited my building. I ran out, knocked Drunky Mcdrunkface on the way and sprinted after the couple heading towards the metro.

“Vivís en esta edificio?!! Lo siento, mi llave no funciona! Me quedo allí”.

I was panting, but perhaps not showing signs of being malicious. They let me in, and I collapsed on my bed. The fan above chopped into the hot air, and I slept, happy and relieved.

Today, the sparrows are still skipping from table to table. Spring flowers smell sweet, and old couples shuffle across the leafy plaza.

It is here I feel relaxed, writing with a background of subtle guitar music, and chattering students. Later I will visit the park, and purchase a phone. Perhaps visit a museum, on my final day in Madrid.

I sit here for a moment and close my eyes.

And, I say a silent little prayer to the god of locks, to help my almighty struggle with the door, that awaits me on my return.